


Weapons

by Traxits



Category: Final Fantasy VIII
Genre: F/M, Prompt Fic, Wordcount: 100-1.000, naked times!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-28
Updated: 2015-07-28
Packaged: 2018-04-11 17:53:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4446032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Traxits/pseuds/Traxits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She looks out of place holding his gun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Weapons

**Author's Note:**

> Original Prompt: Final Fantasy VIII, Irvine/Ellone, she looks out of place holding his gun.

"When did you first pick it up?"

He can tell she's held a weapon before. She's got the gun against her shoulder. The barrel is pointed at the floor instead of at anything that she might actually destroy. She's got her trigger finger flat against the side instead of curved over the trigger.

She still looks wrong holding it. It looks wrong in her hands.

Irvine sits up in the bed. He's never gotten used to the fabrics in Esthar. They're too cool against his skin, too slick. Maybe that's just the niggling wrong under there. Just the realization that she's held weapons as long as him. Or longer.

"I don't remember now," he says. He ignores the way the sheets pooled around his hips. He just slides out of the bed, and he walks over to her. Blue lights filter in through the windows, and not for the first time, he's glad that they're in Esthar. The building they're in is too high up for them to need clothes, even with the curtains open.

She's a work of art with only a blanket around her. It's close to falling off. The weight of the rifle holds it up as she slides her hands down the gun. He steps in close behind her, and he closes his eyes as he brushes his lips against the back of her neck. She leans in against him, and he breathes in. She smells like the sea. She has for as long as he can remember. The sea and honeysuckle.

The honeysuckle is from her soap. He knows because he smells like it now too, after the bath they shared. He opens his eyes, and he reaches around to curve his hands over her hips. She tries to look back at him over her shoulder, and he kisses her nape.

"I was little," he finally admits. He only says it at all because he knows she's learned a patience that none of the others have. She has learned the value of silence, the reward in the unrelenting stillness.

She'd have been a beautiful sniper, and even the thought makes his skin crawl.

"Shortly after the orphanage?" She shifts the gun in her arms, brings it up against her shoulder more. She lifts the barrel, tilting her head to look through the scope. He presses in closer to her, and she lowers the gun again. Distracted, he hopes.

Then she admits, and her voice trembles on the words, "I always worried about you."

The words are knives. Rather than let her show him how many weapons she's learned to wield, he coaxes her into turning around. The rifle is easy in his hand, a weight he's learned and relearned after every growth spurt. He sets it aside and the blanket falls to the floor. She shifts her weight to her other foot, and before she can kneel down to pick it back up, he pulls her against him.

"I worried about you too," he murmurs, and he kisses her. She kisses him back, and it's only a moment before her arms have wrapped around him. She holds him much like she held the gun: careful, practiced. She keeps her fingers flat against his skin, her nails only a hint instead of a scrape. He's noticed it before, and not for the first time, he wonders who taught her to be so careful. Who taught her that people are weapons.


End file.
